


Broken Boys - a sponnor ficlets collection

by kally77



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet Collection, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>At the movies.<br/>PWP</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. The Biggest Bastard

Spike raised his shot glass. “I slept wi' the woman he loved,” he announced, and tossed the drink back. It burned his throat almost enough to warm him.

As he slammed the glass upside down on the counter, lining it up with the others, Connor scoffed and picked up his own. “So did I,” was all he said before he emptied it and set it down again.

His slight grimace as he swallowed was almost adorable. Spike ground his teeth and squinted until the three glasses in front of him had merged into a single one that he could pick up.

“I slept with his bloody _soulmate_ ,” he said, and if he flashed just a bit of fangs, it was because he was drunk, nothing else.

Connor snorted, and picked up his next shot before Spike had even put his glass down. “Yeah? Well I had a baby with his girl.”

A drop of vodka spilled down in his chin when he emptied his glass. Spike watched that drop roll with wide eyes, unconsciously leaning closer and licking his lips. Before he could get close enough, though, Connor wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Well, not really a baby,” he muttered, the words thick and slurred together. “But she was my daughter.” He turned narrowed eyes to Spike. “And she was more evil than you ever were.”

Spike glared at him. He tried to wave a finger at him, but somehow he couldn’t quite manage to point a single finger, and he ended up pressing a full hand to Connor’s chest, right above his heart. A caged bird fluttered beneath his fingertips.

“Those are fighting words, kid,” he grumbled.

Connor rested a hand over Spike’s, pressing it even tighter to his chest. “Not a kid,” he said, and his voice sounded much too steady to Spike’s taste. “Drank as much as you did, didn’t I?”

Spike eyed the two lines of shot glasses balefully. “’M pretty sure you cheated.”

“Did not!” Connor sounded almost offended. “And you’re just trying to change the subject ‘cause I totally win.”

“Not true,” Spike scoffed, and reached for his next glass. They only had two left each. It had been a long night. Frowning at the mouthful of alcohol between his fingers, he searched his memory, settling on what felt like half a lie. “I…” He licked his lips again. “I shoved hot pokers inside his chest!”

Connor didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Yeah? Well I put him into a box.” He tossed back his shot.

Spike was completely nonplussed. “A box?”

Connor nodded. “A big box. And I sank it to the bottom of the ocean.”

That drew an appreciative look from Spike. “You did?”

Connor’s smile was as sharp as broken glass. As painful, too, and Spike almost wanted to check himself and find out where he was bleeding.

“And…” Connor swallowed hard as he picked up the last of his shot glasses. “He stayed there for three months.”

Spike watched him throw his head back, watched that perfect throat stretch for just a second too long, and wished he had dared taste it. “Damn,” he breathed. “You are scary.”

Connor’s only reply was a small nod.

Blinking twice, Spike picked up his last glass and considered it for a moment. He started putting it down again, and could see the slight shift in Connor’s body. A quick glance up didn’t reveal the satisfaction Spike had expected; instead, the only emotion on Connor’s flushed face was fear.

Fear that he was the biggest bastard after all.

Spike thought a little harder still, finally coming up with an answer. “OK. How ‘bout that, then. I slept with his son.”

The tiniest sigh revealed Connor’s relief. He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “You did?”

Spike swallowed his last shot before nodding. “Not only that, but his son loves me.” He tried to put his glass on the counter, but somehow kept missing it. Connor’s gentle hand curled around his wrist, as delicate and strong as it always was when it curled around his cock, and guided him to the line of overturned glasses. Spike let go; Connor didn’t.

“He loves you?” Connor said, his voice a husky whisper. He slipped off his stool and stepped close to Spike, sliding right in between his parted thighs.

Spike hummed. “'Says he does. I believe him. Think he’s lying?”

Connor pressed his forehead to Spike’s. His hand felt very warm around his wrist. “No, I don’t think he’s lying. And I think you win.”

“Ah!” Spike beamed. “Told you I would! Give me my kiss, then, luv.”

Beneath the layers of vodka and salt, Connor tasted like sugar, and victory – but it was the bitterness of guilt that made Spike hard.


	2. Sugar Rush

“Stupid vending machine.”

Spike rolled his eyes at Connor’s mutter. He had told the lad to eat dinner before they came to the office for that stupid meeting, hadn’t he? Always the same thing; now Connor would overdose on sugar and he’d be hyper all night and—

And that wasn’t such a bad thing, come to think of it. Spike dug in his pocket for the couple of dollar bills he kept for instances just like this.

“Still don’t like dried scorpions, then?” he asked as he straightened a crumpled bill between his fingers.

Connor gave him a sharp look at that. He’d tried the scorpions, but only after Spike dared him to. Spike had rarely laughed so hard, but Connor had not been amused.

“What d’you want, then?”

“I wanted Hostess Cup Cakes. But of course they’re out of them.”

There was a joke in there about nervous eating, frustrations and Angel’s waistline, but Spike bit his tongue rather than voice it; he had plans for the night once that stupid meeting was over – really, why couldn’t they all just admit that it was Papa Bear’s weekly ‘Is he treating you right?’ check in, and be done with it? – and his plans didn’t have room for Connor being offended on the old man’s behalf.

“Why don’t you get some of those?” Spike pointed at the row of Suzy Q’s. He’d known a Suzy, once. Sweet as sugar, she’d been, especially when—

“I do not want to know what you’re thinking about,” Connor said suddenly, and Spike gave a guilty start before he could catch himself. “And Suzy Q’s aren’t as satisfying as the Cup Cakes.”

“Seeing how there aren’t Cup Cakes, luv, I’m thinking you’ll have to make do.”

Spike slipped the bill in the machine – had to try three times before the damn thing actually took his money – and pressed the button for the Suzy Q’s. It fell with a soft noise and Spike pulled it from the machine. Connor grimaced when he held it out to him.

“I told you I don’t want it.”

Unfazed, Spike ripped the package open and brought the treat to his mouth. Eyes holding Connor’s, he slipped his tongue between the cakes, gathering a bit of cream on the very tip. Curled his tongue in, let his eyes roll in delight that was only a little bit exaggerated. Of course, it wasn’t artificially flavored cream he was imagining he had in his mouth.

And judging by the flames consuming Connor’s eyes, he knew exactly what Spike was up to.

“Want a bite?” he offered with his best shit-eating grin.

By the time Connor was done eating the whole thing from Spike’s fingertips, alternating tiny bites and flicks of his tongue, that meeting was the last thing on Spike’s mind. Thankfully, his stint as a wandering ghostie had left him with a comprehensive list of ‘get a quick shag in’ places – and he still had half a dozen of them to show Connor.


	3. In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the movies.  
> PWP

The movie is boring as hell.

No, that's not right. Connor has been raised in a hell dimension. It was many things, but never boring.

The movie is as boring as Mrs. Meinke's tenth grade Calculus class the day before the last day of school.

And that’s exactly the way Connor wanted it. Bad movie means a small theater, and very few occupied seats. Bad movie means one of the other four people, the guy on the right near the wall, is snoring. Another one is sitting dead center in the very front row. Connor saw her pass by when she walked in; he saw, also, her huge round glasses and a gleam of metal in her ear. The other couple…

Score. Twenty two minutes in, the girl leans in to say something to the guy sitting next to her. They both get up and leave, murmuring about asking for their money back.

“I think they have the right idea,” Spike mutters, sounding vaguely annoyed. “It’s the last time you get to pick the movie, pet.”

Connor is grinning when he slides off his seat and pushes Spike’s legs apart so he can kneel between them.

Later, he’s probably going to burn his jeans; but for now, he focuses on Spike’s, his fingers playing on the buttons and zipper while he watches surprise widen Spike’s eyes, then comprehension slides on his face like a smile.

*

At times, Spike forgets how well Connor learns.

He should know, really. The first time he saw him fight, all he could see were Angel’s moves. Not all of his moves; just the best ones, the most effective ones. A few weeks later, he got a peek at the boy’s college transcript. He hasn’t seen many of those, but the numbers made it clear: Connor isn’t just a good student. He’s gifted. The grin on Angel’s face when he saw those same numbers could have powered LA for a couple years at least.

From Spike, he has learned how to give fantastic blowjobs, how to fuck someone into a blabbering mess, and that there is no place where an orgasm can’t be reached – or given.

Oh, how glad Spike is that Connor is such a gifted student…

“Beautiful, devious child,” he whispers, raking his fingers through Connor’s hair and pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

“Not a child,” Connor whispers back, before kissing the tip of Spike’s cock. With teeth.

*

Spike’s whole body shudders and he makes a sound, a tiny little thing, like he can’t quite stop himself. Connor pulls away and smirks up at him.

“You gotta be quiet,” he whispers, mock-chastising. “You don’t want us to get thrown out and miss the end of the movie, do you?”

Spike blinks at him owlishly. “Sometimes you’re more evil than your da.”

Connor buries his chuckle against Spike’s balls. Too bad they’re still covered. All he did was pull Spike’s dick out, so they can make a fast exit if they do need to. Still, covered or no, the vibration must feel good because Spike shudders again, and his fingers tighten on Connor’s hair.

“High praise,” Connor says, and leans up again to take Spike’s dick into his mouth.

*

Spike doesn’t think twice. He slips into the demon mask so he won’t come in twenty seconds flat. Connor would tease him about it forever… or until Spike managed to make him come just as fast.

The advantage of having the demon so close to the surface – other than not embarrassing himself completely – is that now Spike can see every little detail when he looks down. The heat of Connor’s mouth is one thing, but the sight of him, of how focused he is on his task, eyes half closed and cheeks sucked in…

Spike lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. He doubts he’ll ever get enough of this boy. When he stops to think about it, he’s scared about what it means in the long run – about what Spike might be tempted to do some day, and—

No. Not thinking about that. Not now. Not when Connor’s tongue is swirling around the length of his dick.

Spike swallows a gasp.

“Fuck, pet. Slow down. Too good.”

*

The plea causes Connor to look up. In the flickering light cast by the screen, Spike’s face is a study of changing shadows. He’s fucking beautiful. And Connor does slow down, just so he can watch him a little longer.

He’s watched that face many times. He’s touched it, too. Sometimes, Spike forgets to slip out of it before he falls asleep, and more than once Connor’s fingers have explored every ridge, every inch of protruding bone. It’s the face of a demon, but also the mask worn by a good man. A man Connor loves as much as his demon.

He likes that Spike never tried to hide this, never tried to pretend he was anything other than what he is. It means Connor is free to be himself, too.

He sucks slowly as he details Spike’s face; slow, regular suctions, each with a little wet clucking sound at the back of his tongue. Every few seconds, he can taste precome there, a little bland, and it makes him crave more.

It isn’t long before he starts sucking in earnest again. Spike’s eyes are blazing above him.

*

Spike wants to tell Connor to slow down again, but if he opens his mouth he's going to howl, so he keeps it clamped shut.

Besides, the teeny tiny lines at the corners of Connor's eyes make it clear that he knows exactly what he's doing to Spike. He sucks hard, swallows around Spike's cock, moves his head up and down in fast little movements - every last trick Spike taught him.

"I've never done this with a guy," he said, blushing, the first time Spike laid his mouth on him.

What he meant, Spike was sure, was 'I've never done this at all.' He tasted all that much sweeter for it.

The memory superimposes over the present, heightening every sensation until Spike can't keep still anymore. His hips twitch up every few seconds, forcing his cock deeper into wet warmth. He clenches his teeth tighter and his own blood floods his mouth just a second before his come floods Connor's.

*

Connor can't help but hum quietly as he drinks all that Spike has to give. Even after Spike has stopped trembling, when his cock has grown soft again on Connor's tongue, Connor suckles, ever so gently, now, until a sharply drawn hiss tells him it's too much.

Only then does he pull back, tugs Spike in and does his fly for him. Then he climbs up, straddles Spike's lap. The seat feels tiny and uncomfortable, but Spike's hands are already cradling Connor's ass, and his mouth is parting for a kiss. He tastes like pleasure and blood, and Connor doesn't know which part he likes best.

Connor's cock feels heavy, burning, but he tries to ignore it for now and focuses on that lazy kiss, on the feel of Spike's face and hair under his hands. They kiss until music rises behind us - until the old woman walks past them with a huff and a muttered, "Young people. No appreciation for art."

They look at each other, then. And burst out laughing. Taking Spike's hand, Connor stands and draws him out of the theater. He's grinning the entire way. The night is still young.

 

(the end)


	4. Birthday Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like it says on the tin.

Connor wakes up to the feel of soft lips pressing at the nape of his neck. He hums quietly into his pillow, and the kiss becomes more insistent – as does the hard cock rocking against the crack of his ass, a wet slide that draws another appreciative hum from his throat. His own cock is just as hard, trapped beneath him, and Spike’s slow rocking movement gives just enough friction for now, air flowing against coals and slowly reawakening the heat within.

“Want your present now or later?” Spike breathes against his ear, and the words are caress, raising goosebumps all over Connor’s body. His fingers slide along Connor’s arms until he find his hands under the pillow and clasps them, fingers entwining without thought or intent.

“Don’t wanna move,” Connor murmurs, but at the same moment he belies his own words, rocking back against Spike then pressing tighter into the sheets beneath him. There’s a wet spot growing against the tip of his cock, but he doesn’t care.

Spike’s laugh is like melted chocolate, sticky and warm, covering everything it touches with sweet bitterness. “Are you sure?” he says, sing song. “If you don’t move, I can’t give you a blowjob. Long and slow, I was thinking. Can’t ride your cock either. Make me do all the work while you just lie there and enjoy. Can’t kiss this pretty pretty mouth of yours. Can’t give you your present and see if you like it. Can’t feed you cake, right from my fingertips. Or maybe—”

With a quiet grumble, Connor shifts, rolls his shoulders, until Spike slips off his back to lie in front of him. Squinting a little, Connor slides closer to him, wraps his arms around him, presses against his body, chest to chest and cock to cock, legs tangling until he isn’t sure anywhere which ones are his. He lays his lips on Spike’s, kisses him deep and slow, and closes his eyes again.

Pulling back after a few seconds, he says it again, the words a little stronger now, pouting. “Don’t wanna move.”

He can feel Spike’s body shake with a silent laugh. “No present, then?”

Connor burrows his face into Spike’s shoulder. “Can wait.”

“No blowjob? No fucking?”

Connor’s cock protests, twitching between their bodies; Connor appeases it with a light press of his hips forward.

“Can wait too.”

Spike’s fingers caress his hair, light as a breeze. His voice drops to a murmur. “How ‘bout cake? Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?”

A little sound comes from Connor’s throat, and he wishes it were enough, but as often as he accuses Spike of reading his mind, he knows Spike can’t do that. So he forces more words out. Whispers, “I’ve got all I want right here.”

And when Spike doesn’t say anything more, when he tucks Connor’s head into his shoulder, presses a kiss to the top of his head, holds him oh so tight, Connor knows Spike has all he wants in his arms, too.


	5. Stormy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *points at title*

Long before the first flash of light illuminates their bedroom, before the first crack of thunder follows seconds later, Connor is already fretting in his sleep. Spike can’t tell whether it’s the smell of the coming storm or the electricity already crackling in the air that are reaching into his dreams, tendrils of unhappiness that cause his heart to beat faster, that make the sour scent of sweat rise every time he turns and rolls. He never wakes, but he keeps shifting, fighting with the pillows, with the sheets, looking for the safety he can’t find – the safety Spike tries to offer by drawing him into his arms.

Connor snarls in his sleep, a cornered animal about to attack. Spike holds him tighter, his arms locking Connor’s in place so the boy doesn’t hurt either of them. Once, by morning, Spike had a black eye; Connor, scratches on his face and arms, all self-inflicted. Connor struggles a little longer, then grows very still and whimpers. Spike presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Shh… It’s all right, luv.”

The whimpering ceases – but not for long. The storm finally reaches them, and what was so far the distant rumble of an angry god becomes a full-blown temper tantrum. Lightning and thunder are simultaneous now, and each strike is like a cannon firing right in their bedroom.

“Just a storm,” Spike whispers into Connor’s hair. “It’ll pass.”

At the next lightning strike, Connor goes rigid, and Spike knows he’s finally awake. He relaxes his hold on him a little, stops the rocking before Connor can get mad and accuse him of being patronizing.

Shifting against Spike, Connor weaves his arms around him. Covered in sweat as he is, their chests are sticking together, and Spike feels him take a deep breath, shaky, rasping.

“Did you have storms like that in England?” Connor asks after a moment. “When you were a kid, I mean.”

Spike hums quietly, runs a hand through Connor’s hair. The next strike doesn’t seem so close.

“Yeah,” he says, letting his voice rumble a bit with the beginning of a purr. “All sorts of weather. But I don’t remember it being as bad as the ones we get here.”

He doesn’t add that he doesn’t remember ever awakening because of thunder. Because of fits of coughing in the next room, yes, for they always sounded as loud as the end of the world, but never because of thunder.

“I didn’t use to mind them before,” Connor whispers into Spike’s neck, lips painting secrets into his skin. “Before I remembered, I mean. I didn’t—”

Another strike, and he loses his words. Spike kisses the top of his head, promises with touch the same things he said earlier – the things he won’t say in words now that Connor is awake. He waits for Connor to start again, maybe explain what memories thunderstorms bring back to the front. Memories from before, and Spike knows enough not to ask questions.

The storm slowly moves away, breaking the sky apart a few more times like the last defiant blows of a sore loser. When it’s finally gone, on its way to disrupting other nights, Connor finally relaxes, bones turned to jelly, practically melting against Spike. He falls asleep again with his arms still around him.

Maybe next time he’ll explain, Spike thinks as he keeps guard on his lover’s sleep. Maybe he’ll give over one more little piece of himself for Spike to cherish. But Spike would trade all the knowledge in the world if it meant no more thunderstorms to disrupt Connor’s nights.


	6. Daddy!Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said. Daddy!Kink.

It starts with a whimper.

Spike has long since trained himself to wake at that sound. He hates it, hates how much pain and fears transpire through it, hates the scent of pure misery that has wrapped around Connor like a cocoon, trapping him in dreams that he refuses to call nightmares.

Shifting his hold on his boy, Spike draws him against his body, cradling him close. His free hand pushes sweat-damp bangs to the side so he can kiss Connor’s forehead. The boy shivers at the touch, but he still doesn’t wake up.

“Shh… You’re all right, love. Daddy’s here.”

The slightest bit of rocking; a gentle hand running up and down Connor’s back; quiet, mindless reassurances whispered in the shell of his ear like as many promises. Soon, he calms down, his heartbeat returning to a gentler drumming, bitterness still clinging to his scent but slowly fading along with the dreams.

Spike’s touch doesn’t stop, it just changes, the soothing caresses becoming more pressing, his hand finding its way to Connor’s chest, then slowly lower.

It’s no use asking Connor what he dreamed about. He always lies and pretends he can’t remember. But if he wants to forget, Spike can help. He cups his hand over Connor’s cock and feels it grow hard at the touch.

“That’s my good boy.” His voice is still as quiet, but the words are rougher, now. “Growing hard for Daddy, aren’t you?”

Connor’s eyes flutter open, still clouded from his dreams but already lightening.

It starts with a whimper.


	7. Spoil The Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Daddy!Kink

With a satisfied grin, Connor wipes a splatter of viscous demon blood from his cheek. It has been a long time since he’d had such fun. When he absently looks down at his hand, the demon blood, black and foul-smelling, is streaked with red. His grin fades at once – although not his erection. He hurriedly wipes his hand on his jeans and touches his face again. He finds the cut all too easily on his right cheek. It’s shallow under his fingertips, the kind that won’t leave a scar – he doesn’t even remember feeling the cut – but it’s too long for Connor to be able to hide it.

“Ah shit,” he mutters, and glances behind him. The alley is still empty. Maybe if he—

He swears again when the familiar silhouette appears in the distance, walking toward him with long, irritated strides. In the few seconds it takes Spike to reach him, Connor prepares his words like he would ready weapons, picking the most efficient ones if not the ones that shine the brightest.

Squaring his shoulders, he tries not to flinch as he meets Spike’s icy gaze. His eyelashes seem to glitter with frost. Any sort of remorse now would only make things worse. “You know I had to—”

“Be quiet, boy.”

Connor’s tongue stills at once, and he suddenly knows what it must feel like to try to lick a frozen pole in the dead of winter. His hand tightens over his sword as he watches Spike survey the scene. Holding his breath, he waits for praises or reprobation, anxious to know which will come first. He has earned both, tonight, and he knows it.

But Spike doesn’t say a word about the three demons lying in pieces around them. A muscle ticks in his jaw as he turns his eyes back to Connor. Two fingers slide under Connor’s chin, tilting his face up, angling it this way and that. Spike’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. All he says is a terse, biting, “Home. Now.” He walks out of the alley looking even angrier than he entered it.

As Connor starts after him, he rolls his eyes at the back of Spike’s head. It’s not like he has never hunted alone before. It’s not like he’s five years old and needs someone to hold his hand when he crosses the street. It’s not like he’s never bled before, for that matter.

Spike glances back at him and gives him a hard look, as though he could hear every one of Connor’s silent protests. Connor drops his gaze to the pavement. His ears are burning, the blood pulsing against his eardrums like it pulses through his hard-on. He remembers all too well the last time a demon spilled his blood. Before the night was over, Spike had followed through with his threat – he calls it a promise, like Connor should be grateful for it.

And Connor is grateful, deep down, in that dark place where he remembers that those who love the best punish the hardest.

Spike doesn’t look at him again until they reach the hotel, and then it’s only to glare again. “Clean the sword,” he says, the words rumbling like distant thunder. “Then come up.”

Feeling mutinous, Connor wants to tell him to clean the damn thing himself – but before he can say a word, Spike raises an eyebrow at him, like he knows what Connor is going to say, and is daring him to just make things worse for himself. Connor clenches his teeth and finds a rag, ignoring the satisfied nod Spike gives him before he climbs the stairs. The demon blood has turned sticky and it’s a pain to clean off – and still, nowhere near as painful as he expects things will become when he goes up. He’ll be lucky if he can sit before a couple of days have passed; somehow, accelerated healing doesn’t seem to mean much when vampire stamina is on the other end of the equation.

When the sword is as shiny as though it were new – or rather, as shiny as it will ever be again; blood can be scrubbed off, but the shadow of it always remains, dulling metal just like it dulls souls – Connor puts it back in its place in the cabinet. The other sword is missing. That explains where Angel is. With any luck, he won’t be back before Spike is done. It’s awkward enough that Angel knows, it just makes for embarrassing mornings when he’s there to hear.

Heavy step after heavy step, he walks up to the room he and Spike share. He’s not scared, not exactly, but his apprehension rises in leaps and bounds. He knows what’s coming. He knows he won’t be able to talk his way out of it.

And in truth he would be disappointed if it went any other way.

When he reaches their door, he pauses and shrugs, trying to loosen up a little. The jacket feels too big on his shoulders, like he borrowed his father’s clothes. He slides out of it, holding it to his chest as he finally pushes the door open. He stumbles a little when he finds Spike waiting for him just three steps in, arms crossed over his bare chest.

Connor’s resolve to keep quiet melts at the moment he meets Spike’s eyes, and before he knows it he blurts out a breathless, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

It’s a lie, of course. Nobody forced him to go hunting alone before the sun set. Nobody forced him to sneak out while Spike was busy arguing with Angel.

Spike doesn’t call him on it. He takes the jacket from Connor’s hands and throws it over his own on the chair by the door. Connor steels himself for the order he knows is coming. He wants this to be over already, wants Spike’s eyes to warm up, his lips to soften into a smile. He wants to know he’s forgiven. Loved.

“You smell,” Spike says, wrinkling his nose as he steps closer. His hand comes up to curl at the back of Connor’s neck. His fingers are cool; they’ll warm up, later. He lets out a small, fondly exasperated sigh. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then.” His fingers slide up and ruffle Connor’s hair as he pushes him toward the bathroom. “Silly boy.”

This is not what Connor expected. Not the petting, not the too gentle words, and certainly not the bubble bath waiting for him in the bathroom. He’s so stunned that he just stands still as Spike undresses him.

Shirt first, and a reproving sniff at the demon blood that stains it. “Ruined another shirt. You’ve got to learn to take care of your things, love.”

His sneakers next, and Spike puts a knee down to pull them off his feet. “Lift. There you go. The other one, now.”

Spike stays down to undo Connor’s belt and the button fly. He pulls the jeans down along with Connor’s boxers, freeing his cock. It stands at attention, inches from Spike’s face, and a small whimper rises from Connor’s throat. “Dirty boy,” Spike says, looking from Connor’s cock to his face.

Without giving Connor the touch he wants so much, Spike stands again. His own jeans are stretched tight over his cock. Emboldened by Spike’s mild reaction so far, Connor risks reaching out – and is immediately chastised for it when Spike slaps the back of his hand.

“I don’t think so, no. In you go. Your water’s getting cold.”

Connor steps into the tub, Spike holding his arm. He hisses softly; the water, hiding beneath a mass of bubbles, is definitely not cold.

“Too hot,” he protests, and gives Spike a look that asks him to make things better.

Spike turns the cold water on. He lets it flow for a few seconds, then bends down to mix cool and too hot. The water around Connor’s legs is soon perfect.

“Thank you.”

With a cluck of his tongue, Spike takes his arm again and helps him sit down. “Is that how you say thank you, boy? Again, and properly this time.”

The heat rising in Connor’s face isn’t entirely due to the hot water surrounding him. “Thank you,” he says again, and adds in a whisper, “Daddy.”

Spike nods as he kneels by the tub, and picks up the washcloth and soap waiting on the edge. “Better.” He works up a lather into the washcloth and considers Connor thoughtfully. “Close your eyes, love. This might sting a bit.”

Shivering a little, Connor shuts his eyes. Spike’s right hand curls at the back of Connor’s neck, pulling him forward. He starts rubbing the washcloth over Connor’s forehead, then his cheeks – the left first, then the right, his movements so gentle that, if not for the sting of the soap, Connor wouldn’t even know he’s touching the cut there.

When Connor winces, Spike lets out a low growl. “Care to tell me what you were thinking about, then, running off like that?”

The washcloth leaves his face, but Connor keeps his eyes closed. It’s better than to face Spike, now.

“I just wanted to show you I could do it,” he says, a little wistful. “And I did, didn’t I?”

Spike has rinsed off the washcloth in hot water. The cloth is warm on Connor’s face. Spike’s voice, in contrast, is as icy as it was earlier.

“I know you can do it.” His fingers tighten on Connor’s neck, stopping just a hair short of too tight. He’s running the washcloth in circles over Connor’s torso, plunging lower with each pass. “You’ve got nothing to prove to me, and you know it. Now look at me, stop playing and tell me what was going on in your head.”

Connor’s eyes blink open. His eyelids feel heavy, water clinging to his eyelashes – or it might be the heat of the bath, settling deep under his skin and making him drowsy. Either that or Spike’s hand, now curled around his cock, the washcloth forgotten at the bottom of the tub.

“You were arguing with him,” he mumbles, his eyes rising no higher than Spike’s chin.

Spike’s fingers tighten for just a second, pulling a gasp from Connor.

“And? I argue with him all the time. What does that have to do…”

His voice trails off and he falls silent. He finally starts moving his hand, tight and slow over Connor’s cock – perfect. The other pulls Connor’s head toward him until he can lay a kiss on Connor’s temple.

“Silly boy. Got jealous, didn’t you?”

Connor’s quiet moan is an answer to both Spike’s words and touch.

“Silly, silly boy,” Spike says again, his voice dropping to a murmur even as his stroking accelerates. “Don’t you know it, yet? Do I have to tell you again?”

Breathing hard, Connor bites down on his bottom lip. He raises his eyes to Spike’s but says nothing – not until Spike’s hand stills at the root of his cock.

“So?” Spike says, impatience coloring the word.

“I’m…” Connor tries to shift his hips, but Spike’s hard look stops him at once. “I’m your boy,” he says, blinking very fast. How can Spike always tell that he’s so damn close – how does he always know when to stop?

“And?” Spike prompts him when he falters. His hand moves just the tiniest bit over Connor’s cock.

“And you love me,” Connor says, swallowing hard.

Spike nods and completes a full stroke before stopping again. “And I love you because?”

Connor could weep in frustration. He tilts his head so Spike’s hand is on his cheek. “Because you’re my Daddy,” he finishes, pressing the last word, like a kiss, against the center of Spike’s palm.

Spike leans toward him and kisses his mouth very softly, like he did, that first time, all those months ago. Like there is more to come, and this kiss is just a small hint of it.

“Yes love. Very good. That’s my good boy.”

Shivering in expectation, Connor half closes his eyes and waits, waits for the perfect touch only his Daddy knows to give him, waits for pleasure and forgiveness and—

Spike lets go of him and stands, unfolding the towel he had placed by the sink. Connor looks at him, wide-eyed, incredulous, and just a little hurt.

“First your punishment for running off, love,” Spike says, a glint of ice back in his eyes. “Then your reward, if you continue to be a good boy.”

Nothing stops Connor from taking hold of his cock. Three strokes would suffice, maybe only two.

Nothing forces him to step out of the tub, follow Spike to the bed, and lie down across his lap.

Nothing at all, except for a simple fact – that’s what his Daddy wants, and Connor is a good boy.


	8. The Next Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first time Spike bites Connor, he nearly kills him._

The first time Spike bites Connor, he nearly kills him.

The boy has been asking for it for months. Not in words, though. Of course not. The words are still those of the good boy, the one who calls home every Sunday at three o’clock sharp, telling his mom and her husband about school, about work, about his boyfriend when they ask. Lately, they ask almost every time. They’ve finally come around. Lovely family. Connor is lucky to have so many people who love him.

Once, Spike said as much to Angel. The bastard broke his nose.

The other Connor, the one who kills as easily with a sword, a stake or his bare hands, doesn’t use as many words. It’s not that he can’t; he’s just better at talking with his eyes, his fingertips – or even his cock, fucking Spike’s ass or mouth with the same abandon, the same single-minded focus.

The plea is in his eyes, sullied blue like that old baby blanket Connor once found in that abandoned hotel he likes to visit sometimes. The blanket smelled like smoke, and was stained by ashes. Spike pretends he doesn’t know it’s at the very back of Connor’s bedside drawer.

It’s in his fingertips, when they hold Spike’s dick just a hair too tight, stopping his release even as dirty words fall from pretty pink lips, encouraging him to come now. When he’s angry, the boy has a mean streak to him, and Spike is always surprised that his eyes don’t glow like amber.

It’s on his mouth, tender caresses he presses to Spike’s neck, where the scars have faded almost to nothing. Every so often, he scrapes his teeth against them, human teeth, too blunt, too small; Spike holds the back of his head, fingers tangling in silk, and hums encouragements anyway. Once – just once – Connor bites hard enough to draw blood. There’s no telling which of them is more surprised. No telling either who comes the hardest.

It’s not very long after this – nights have trickled by but Spike can still feel Connor’s teeth in his flesh, like he could feel his father’s fangs, still, after Romania – when Spike first tastes him.

He’s been careful so far, forcing himself not to breathe whenever Connor was bleeding, avoiding kissing him when his mouth was red. He’s been tempted, but he has resisted, and each time he congratulated himself for it. Each time, he called himself a pitiful wanker and cursed the spark burning him to cinders.

He knows – he knows it in his veins, in his bones, down to his bloody soul and even beyond – that the boy would taste like his father, the same way he smells like him, moves like him. He’d taste like Angel – no, like Angelus – the same way he fucks like him, because they have the same darkness within them. Because Connor Reilly is a façade, the same way Angel is, and Spike knows just where to push to make the walls crumble and free the demons.

Only he knows; only he loves them enough to know.

Buried deep inside his boy, arms and legs holding him tight, Spike moves slowly, drawing breathless moans from lips he could spend the rest of his existence kissing if they would just keep saying his name like this, like he’s precious, and wanted, and loved.

Sometimes, it almost scares Spike. He’s not used to it. He’s afraid he’ll do something wrong and break it all, shattering Connor’s trust along with his heart.

When the moans change, becoming harsher, more urgent, Spike’s tempo accelerates right along with them. He meets Connor’s eyes, grins, asks “Are you ready?” but the answer is not what he expects, and he loses his pace rather than increasing it again.

Connor’s head is tilted on the pillow, offering the long, unblemished curve of his throat to Spike’s eyes. To his mouth. To his fangs.

With a groan, Spike slides into his true visage. The shifting and rearranging of his bones, to his own ears, echoes as loudly as thunder. Connor arches his neck just a little more, and the invitation might as well be engraved on a slab of marble, cold and gray, flowers wilting in front of it, their scent that much more heady for it.

Spike roars and plunges down, plunges deep, burying cock and fangs inside his boy, giving and taking in the same instant.

He was wrong, he realizes as sweet, sweet blood floods his mouth.

He pulls a little harder, drawing a small cry from Connor.

He was so very wrong.

Connor tastes like his father, yes. But at the same time, he doesn’t.

His father is dead. He’s death. He’s pain. He hurts himself today just as easily as he used to hurt others – he hurts Spike, too, whether he tries to or not, with fists or words, always.

Connor… Connor is laughter. He’s butterfly wings brushing against Spike’s cheekbones, leaving fairy dust behind until Spike is sure he could fly. He has never hit Spike, however often Spike has suggested sparring. He has never said the word ‘love’, either, but he doesn’t need to.

It’s in his blood.

And Spike doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.

He doesn’t know how he manages to stop himself before it’s too late. He doesn’t know either why Connor doesn’t blame him, or why he keeps touching the scars with his fingertips, a thin, barely there smile pushing to his lips every time he does. He doesn’t know how he manages not to do it again, especially when, every time he’s on top of Connor, his boy offers him his neck again – and looks just a little more hurt every time Spike doesn’t do what he asks for.

What Spike does know – in his veins, in his blood, down to his forsaken soul and even beyond – is that the next time he bites Connor, he will kill him.

He wishes he didn’t look forward to that day.


	9. 32 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 32 drabbles. Just bits of life.

It all started with a bang. At least, that was what it sounded like to Spike when Angel’s fist crashed into his face. 

He had seen Angel’s caveman fist up close and personal quite often across the years. Angelus’ as well. It was the first time however that he was decked by _Connor’s father_. He seemed to hit even harder than his other incarnations.

One other thing was new. For the first time, someone stopped Angel before he could try to land a second blow. Spike didn’t need protection, but it still felt good to have Connor on his side.

*

Palms thrust out in front of him, Connor winced at the tempest darkening his father’s eyes. Electricity cracked in the air around the three of them. Lightning had struck once already; it might fall again.

“Calm down, Dad,” he said softly. Angel faltered and lowered his fists. “So maybe I can explain—”

“Explain?” Thunder filled that simple word. “I think I understand better than you do. Maybe _I_ should explain.”

A hand closed on Connor’s shoulder and pulled him back. He glanced at Spike. No storm there: his eyes were limpid, a summer sky; his grin, pure sunlight.

*

Spike kept his grin firmly in place as he shifted his eyes to Angel. “Go ahead,” he said calmly. “Tell him what a bad man I am. He’s heard it all before.”

Angel glared at him. “So you’ve told him you enjoy fucking the people I love just to fuck with my head?”

Of course that was what he’d think. Spike’s grin sharpened until it could have sliced as well as fangs. Someone needed to finally teach the bastard that not everything was about him and—

“You’ve slept with the werewolf girl too?” Connor asked, mild surprise coloring his words.

*

“No, I didn’t sleep with her,” Spike said, rolling his eyes a little. “Not that fond of fur.”

Connor believed him. He had no reason to lie, not after everything he had admitted he had done – not after Connor had confessed just as much. It had been a sort of two-steps, at first, each of them advancing in turn, offering another truth, expecting the other to back away. Neither of them had stopped dancing, to their shared surprise.

Nodding once, he slipped his hand in Spike’s and faced his father again. This promised to be a different kind of dance.

*

“He’s using you.” Angel was pleading for his son to believe him, now. “He only wants—”

“Thirty-two days,” Connor cut in calmly.

Angel frowned, though at his words or at Spike kissing his boy’s temple, Spike didn’t know. “Thirty-two days what?”

“Between the moment we met and the first time we slept together. Do you really think Spike has that much patience?”

Spike gave him an eyeroll. “Brat. I’m patient when I have to be.”

Connor’s eyes sparkled as brightly as his laugh. “My point exactly.”

Their lips met briefly. When they turned back to Angel, he looked stunned.

*

Connor didn’t let Angel voice more protests.

“Listen Dad, I’m not a kid running around with scissors. I’d have listened if you had told me to put the scissors down, but it’s not like Spike is dangerous and—”

Angel’s widening eyes were his first clue he had chosen his words poorly; Spike cuffing the back of his head, the second.

“I don’t think the demon I got off your back not half an hour ago would agree,” Spike said, glaring.

“Not dangerous to _me_. Jeez, you’d think—”

“What demon?” Angel cut in abruptly, his frown deeper than ever.

*

“Not sure what it was,” Spike replied, shrugging. “Heard noise, smelled blood, and Junior put on his cape and decided to play the hero.” He turned an exasperated look toward Angel. “I wonder where he picked that up.”

Connor punched Spike’s shoulder lightly. “One, keep calling me Junior and you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. Two, I don’t play the hero. Three, if anyone is wearing a cape, that’d be you, Mister black leather avenger. And four, you’re the one who rushed at that thing. I only came after you to save your ass.”

“ _You_ saved _me_?” Spike sputtered indignantly.

*

“Keep telling yourself that, pet. Write your self-insert Gary-Stu fanfics about it if you want, but don’t expect—”

Connor’s face felt like it was burning, all of a sudden. “You said you hadn’t _read_ it!” 

“And when I said it, it was true.” Spike sounded absolutely unrepentant. “But you keep leaving your computer unlocked and I get bored waiting all day so—”

“Wait a minute,” Angel said.

For a second, Connor had forgotten his father was there. He gave Spike a dirty glare before turning back to Angel, who looked both horrified and confused.

“You two… _live_ together?”

*

Five minutes after they had left Angel, Spike was still grinning. Damaging Angel’s mind wasn’t why he had become interested in Connor, but it was an added bonus.

Connor bumped his shoulder as they turned into their street. Spike looked up to find him frowning.

“I think we broke my father’s brain,” he said, sounding mildly worried.

Spike curled his arm at Connor’s waist. “He’ll get over it.”

 _In a couple decades,_ he mentally added.

“Hope so.” Connor shrugged, then grinned at him. “First one home tops.”

He started running before he even finished. Spike laughed and ran after him.

*

Connor was passing their building’s swimming pool when Spike caught up with him. His foot slipped. As he fell, he had one second to decide – let Spike win, or change the game.

He caught Spike’s arm. The momentum of his slipping foot did the rest. They both tumbled into the pool.

Connor gasped at the shock of the cool water engulfing him. Kicking his legs, he surfaced, coughing and laughing. Spike came up next to him, glaring.

“Cheater.”

Connor stuck his tongue out. Next thing he knew, Spike was wrapped around him. Nothing wrong with cheating from where he stood.

*

“You’re crazy,” Spike muttered as he pulled off his shoes. Water pooled around them in the apartment’s entrance. 

Connor snorted and dropped his jacket to the floor, then peeled off his wet t-shirt. “It’s just water.”

Spike grimaced as he hung his drenched duster on the hook behind the door. “You could have cracked your head open in that pool. And then your father would have cracked _my_ head open for letting it happen.”

His wet jeans pushed only halfway down his legs, Connor grinned at Spike. “Are you worrying about my skull or your own?”

Spike huffed. “Completely insane.”

*

Gasping, Connor arched up again and buried his cock inside Spike. 

Spike’s tempo accelerated over him, pulling grunts from both of them. His hand was a blur on his own dick. Connor gripped his hips tight as he came with a shout; Spike followed him the next second, strands of pearly white splattering over Connor. He fell to the side, his hand already rubbing his semen into Connor’s skin.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” Connor grumbled.

Spike nuzzled the crook of his neck. “Like you to smell like me, is all.”

Connor couldn’t really object to that.

*

Spike’s arm tightened around Connor at the first sign he was trying to get up.

“We’re staying in bed today,” he informed him on a tone that suffered no argument.

Connor rolled over and gave him an amused look. “We are?”

“Damn right we are. Know what today is?” At Connor’s raised eyebrow, he enlightened him. “Friday the thirteenth.”

Connor’s eyebrow rose a little higher. “And?”

“And?” Spike huffed. “Don’t you know anything?”

“I know I’m human and have a bladder.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Spike retracted his arm. “Stupid humans.”

Connor laughed. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t be back.”

*

“I wanna fuck you.”

Connor opened a bleary eye. Just inches away on the pillow, Spike was wide-awake, his hand already sliding down Connor’s back, slowly but purposefully.

“You say the sweetest things,” Connor muttered and closed his eye again.

“You’d prefer violins and poetry?” Spike asked, badly hiding a snicker. “’Cause let me warn you, my violin skills suck, and my poetry —”

“Will you shut up and fuck me already?”

Connor had heard Spike’s poetry – the one he recited without a word, letting his fingers, his lips and his cock speak for him. He liked it just fine.

*

The clickety sound of the keyboard awoke Spike. Finding himself alone in bed, he pouted and, very quietly, got up and slipped out of the room. Connor was at the kitchen table, so focused on what he was writing that he didn’t notice Spike behind him. Even from a few feet away, Spike could read over his shoulder.

_“There’s only room for one of us here,” the blond vampire snarled. “These are my hunting grounds.”_

_The Destroyer rolled his eyes at the vamp and snickered. “You call this hunting?”_

Spike stopped reading. It wasn’t fiction. He already knew the ending.

*

Grocery shopping with Spike was a _pain_.

In the produce aisle, he touched everything, messing up the piles of fruit that tumbled to the floor behind him.

He snickered at Connor’s choice of hot sauce, cereals and cookies.

In the frozen section, he complained about the cold.

The alcohol aisle was never stocked well enough for his taste.

The worse, though, was the ‘intimate life’ display. Somehow, he always managed to require the help of a store clerk to find the flavor of lube he wanted this time around.

Connor pretended he didn’t know him. Afterwards, though, he always laughed.

*

“How ‘bout you skip class today?”

“If I listened to you I’d be skipping class every day.”

“But you never do. Come on, pet. Just this once.”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that. You should give me three good reasons to stay.”

“Your cock, my mouth, my cock and your ass. There you go. That’s four.”

“If that’s the best you can do—”

“No! Wait! Just…”

“Spike, come on, let go of me, I’ll be back before—”

“I love you.”

“That’s three words, not three reasons.”

And still, Connor burrowed into Spike’s arms and skipped class.

*

With every thrust, the headboard banged against the wall.

With every bang, the neighbor’s dog barked even more furiously. 

After five minutes, even the feel of Spike’s cock pounding inside him wasn’t enough anymore to stop Connor from laughing into the pillow beneath him. Spike’s thrusting only intensified. He growled, his fingers digging into Connor’s hips. By the time he came, pink flowers had bloomed beneath his hands.

“Gonna kill that bloody animal,” he muttered, falling next to Connor.

Connor grinned. “You’re just mad ‘cause you came first. Your ass is mine all week.”

Spike scowled. The dog barked again.

*

Holding the bloody thing was awkward and Spike felt like an absolute ponce. He couldn’t remember ever owning an umbrella, not even when he had been delicate enough to catch his death from three drops of rain. Connor was nowhere near that fragile, and he’d probably laugh at Spike standing there in the rain waiting for him, but he had gone out wearing just a t-shirt that morning and the temperature had dropped enough for Spike to notice. The crowd of chattering students finally walked out.

Connor’s face lit up when he saw Spike. He smiled, but he didn’t laugh.

*

Connor squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before he faced the enemy. It was big – bigger than he had expected. It was his first time facing this – or at least it felt like it. But he would be victorious. He had to be. 

He’d been in a Hallmark store before, picking up Mother’s Day or Father’s Day cards, even a couple of times for Valentine’s Day. But finding a card for Spike promised to be the greatest challenges of all.

Did Hallmark even make ‘you’re the best vampire boyfriend a not-quite human guy like me could have’ cards?

*

At first, Connor’s closet scared Spike. There was such a thing as compulsive and freakish neatness, and Connor had inherited that from his father. 

Shirts were organized by sleeve length and material. Ironed pants lay in neat piles on shelves above that. Shoes were lined up on the floor as though with a ruler.

Scary and yet… 

The day half the closet suddenly emptied, the shelves and bare hangers waiting for Spike’s clothes, Spike understood that his boy might just mean it when he said he loved him. So maybe he’d try not to mess up his closet too much.

*

“I don't know where the hell I put them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Spike!”

“What? It’s not like I lost them on purpose!”

“Really? How do I know that?”

“I’m telling you, that’s how.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you never lied before to keep me in bed.”

“Once! And it wasn’t really—”

“I’ve got a class in ten minutes!”

“Are you saying you can’t break free?”

“And then what? Go to class with handcuffs on my wrists?”

“Wear long sleeves.”

“Spike! Find the damn keys or I swear I’ll break these just so I can stake you!”

*

Connor made a small sound in his sleep. Spike’s hand ghosted over him before drawing the sheet up. He slipped out of bed then out of the room, grabbing his smokes on his way to the kitchen. Sitting on the counter, he slid the window open and lit up a cigarette. He closed his eyes on his first drag, opened them again as he exhaled outside.

His gaze drifted with the smoke, wandered over the darkness. He followed the beam of a streetlight down to the sidewalk. A faint smile tugged at his lips when he saw Angel standing there.

*

Connor dreamed.

He often ran in his dreams, for the sheer rush of it, laughing whenever a flash of platinum and leather passed him. But when he looked for Spike this time, all he could see was a nearby tree. He heard Spike before he could see him.

“Knew you’d come.”

He looked up to see Spike sitting on a branch. His head was turned up, but the foliage was too dense for Connor to see what he was looking at. He came closer still, and finally saw—

Awakening in a jump, Connor reached out for Spike. He wasn’t there.

*

“Pity there’s no tree outside our bedroom. You could have learned a trick or two.”

Angel’s fists tightened but stayed at his sides.

“Knew you’d come,” Spike added, sobering up. “And, no, it’s not a game.”

Angel’s eyes gleamed with gold. “How do I know it’s not?”

“I love him.” He held out his pack of cigarettes to Angel. “Not because he’s yours. Because he’s _him_.”

Angel took a cigarette and Spike lit it for him. He sighed as he exhaled. “Don’t come running to me if he tries to stake you,” he said, and it sounded like a blessing.

*

Spike wasn’t smoking from his usual perch. Frowning a little, Connor walked to the window and looked out. Forty seconds later, he was dressed. Thirty-three seconds after that, he ran out of the building, trying to look calm, knowing his heartbeat would betray him.

“If it was up your ass, you'd know where it was,” Spike snarked at Angel as Connor approached.

Connor never found out what that was about. They noticed him, then, and turned to him together. They weren’t fighting; unexpected. They were both smoking; odd. They both smiled at him a bit sheepishly; nice. Connor smiled back.

*

As they entered the apartment, Spike noticed that Connor’s t-shirt was inside out. He kissed his temple, touched that Connor had been so worried.

“How did he find us?” Connor asked.

Spike shrugged on his way to the kitchen. “Dunno. I’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t.”

“Think he’ll be back?”

“Oh, he will.” In the cabinets, Spike found a bottle of liquid chocolate and one of honey. “He’ll check I’m not mistreating you.”

Unable to pick, he joined Connor in the bedroom with a bottle in each hand. Mistreating him wasn’t what he had in mind for now.

*

“We’re going to the hospital.”

“Spike, I said I’m fine. In a couple days I won’t even have a scratch left.”

“You could be bleeding inside. You could drop dead in an hour—”

“You’ll turn me before that happens.”

Spike stilled and _stared_. Connor winced; maybe a flippant tone wasn’t the best for that particular topic.

“I’m _fine_. Really. The car is more damaged than I am.”

Spike grabbed him and pulled him into his arms, holding him just a little too tight.

“Like I care about the car.”

He _did_ care, Connor knew. He just held him back.

*

Angel dropped by again, unannounced, and invited himself on their weekly shopping trip. To Connor’s surprise, Spike agreed. Angel was becoming annoying. Spike had the perfect cure.

Soon they were at the supermarket. When Spike turned into aisle 7A, Connor remembered he wanted something at the other end of the store. He left too fast; Angel was stuck with Spike.

By the time Spike was done detailing which flavors of lube Connor liked best, Angel looked ready to faint.

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” he complained.

Spike smirked. “And that's why we're never going shopping together again.”

*

The city had survived, although the electrical system had perished a noble death. Emergency crews were working to repair it, but Connor didn’t mind the blackout. He could finally see the stars.

Lying on his back on the roof, he was still too wired up to sleep.

“You’ll go there, some day,” he said suddenly. “In space, I mean.”

Spike shifted next to him. “Not sure I’d want to.”

Connor turned onto his side; Spike’s expression was inscrutable. “Why not? It’s the final frontier, you could see new worlds and—”

Spike leaned closer and kissed him. “It’d be lonely.”

*

“Want to…double the stakes?”

Connor raised an eyebrow at Spike without slowing down his thrusting.

“Why would I—” He grunted when Spike clenched around him. “—risk that?”

Spike was practically squirming, but it was hard to tell if he was trying to get away or draw Connor’s cock deeper inside his ass. “I’ll give you an extra—oh _fuck_ —month if you win.”

Connor shifted his hips, changing his angle just a hair. Spike’s eyes narrowed as his mouth fell open. 

“I’ll bet you… a year.” Connor gasped. “A full year.”

Gold burned in Spike’s gaze. “You’re on.”

*

Spike cleaned the apartment, changed the sheets and fluffed the pillows – after placing a tube of lube under each.

Then he cooked – that is, he picked up the phone. He could order Connor’s favorite take-out in his sleep.

After that, he took a shower, scrubbing his hair free of the gel until it was ridiculously fluffy and curly – just the way Connor liked. He dressed in a pair of leather pants tight as a second skin, and a shirt that he didn’t bother buttoning.

When Connor walked in, he greeted him with a kiss. And that was only the beginning.


	10. Only For you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breathplay

The front door closes behind them with a whisper of metal on metal. Right away, Spike’s hands curl around Connor’s neck, snug but not very tight. Not yet. Connor swallows hard. Then does it again. His throat moves beneath Spike’s hold, accentuating the pressure just a little, just for a second.

“Not yet, love,” Spike murmurs, his lips an inch from Connor’s. He releases his grip, his hands moving to the collar of Connor’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders then traveling down his chest to hunt for the hem of his t-shirt.

“Come on,” Connor breathes, a pleading note edging his words with silver, like the gray clouds covering the sky in his eyes. “You promised—”

Spike lays his lips on his boy’s mouth and presses his tongue in, cutting short that unnecessary reminder. He promised, yes, against his better judgment – or perhaps because he knows it’s better this way. Better if he’s in control, making sure nothing goes awry. Better than to abandon Connor to take care of himself and leave him to take unacceptable risks. 

Better, also, because Connor is so fucking _hot_ when he aches for it, desire pouring out of him through senseless words and desperate looks, the smell of lust and precome enveloping him like a tight fist, his cock so hard before they even start, his skin flushed as though he were already choking – and he is, in a way: choking on his needs, on his shame, on the pleasure that will elude him until Spike’s hands are right where he wants them – right where they belong. On him. Tight.

It doesn’t mean Spike can’t take his sweet time getting them there. 

He lets Connor suck on his tongue a little longer before breaking off the kiss so he can pull Connor’s t-shirt over his head. Hands roaming on that marble chest – but marble was never so warm beneath his hands, never pulsing with blood and life, never so beautiful – Spike half guides, half pushes him toward the couch. Taking his time is all good and well, but the bed is just too damn far. He pulls Connor’s belt free from his jeans and tugs on both ends. The leather snaps like thunder, and Connor’s eyes close for an instant, his teeth catching his bottom lip. He’s arching his neck, though Spike doubts he even realizes he’s doing it. The belt has been tight over that lovely throat before, Spike knows. He hates it, like he hated the long, thick bruise that curled around his boy’s neck for a couple of days. The bruises he leaves are always much prettier.

The belt makes a dull thud when Spike drops it to the floor at the foot of the sofa. Connor’s pants joins it next, shoved down with his boxers, tangled around his sneakers for an instant but soon enough he stands in front of Spike, bare and shivering. Waiting. Pleading again, now with stormy eyes.

“Lie down,” Spike demands. “Prepare yourself for me. Show me how much you want it.”

Connor is already lying back against the armrest on the couch before Spike is finished. He’s trembling a little as he hunts down the bottle of lotion between the cushions and squirts some on his fingers before dropping it to the floor. Spike unbuttons his shirt, aware that Connor’s eyes follow every one of his movements like he follows every one of Connor’s. 

Drawing his legs back and opening himself to Spike’s gaze, Connor palms his cock with one hand while the other loses no time dipping to his ass. Those slim, callused fingers are barely coated in lotion, Spike notices, but he says nothing. Connor _needs_ different things, and Spike is both able and willing to give them all to him. Anything for his boy. Connor knows now all he has to do is ask.

“Tell me what you want,” Spike reminds him, his eyes fleeting between Connor’s face, scrunched up in an odd mix of pleasure and concentration, and his fingers, two of them now pumping fast in and out of his tight hole.

“Want you,” Connor says, the words catching in his throat. “Fuck me. Hold me. Please.”

That last word is practically a keening wail. Spike’s cock, hard against his stomach, gives a twitch. He kicks his jeans off and climbs onto the couch. Kneeling in front of Connor, he rests a hand by his shoulder and leans down to press kisses along his throat, like an apology before the fact for the marks he will soon leave there. 

Connor moans and arches his neck back as far as the armrest behind him will allow, reaching out between them for Spike’s cock. He smears whatever is left of the lotion on the tip and guides it forward, fumbling a little in his haste. His whimper is pure frustration. 

The vibration against his lips sends a jolt through Spike. He sits back on his heels, and his hand joins Connor’s on his cock. Together they lead it to Connor’s ass, and it’s the same slow hiss that passes their lips when the head breaches in. Grabbing Connor’s hips, Spike pulls him closer, forcing himself deeper inside him inch by inch. He has to grind his teeth at how tight his boy is around him. He almost wants to close his eyes, block out everything except for the heat and friction around his cock, but watching the play of sensations over Connor’s face is downright enthralling. 

Pain is there, no doubt about it, though not enough that Spike thinks of stopping. Pleasure, too, and Connor never stops stroking his cock, his hand moving as slowly as Spike does. First and foremost, though, is his need. Tightening his hold on Connor’s hips, Spike jerks him down one last time, until his balls press against heated flesh and Connor, lying flat on his back at last, legs in the air, gasps and shudders. 

Eyelids heavy with lust darken Connor’s eyes a little more when his free hand reaches for Spike’s. He pries it off his hip and brings it upward, along his chest then up to his lips for a brief kiss before he lets go. Spike returns it to Connor’s throat and spreads his fingers, feeling Connor’s pulse throb beneath each fingertip as though he was holding his heart in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t tighten his hold and merely lets Connor feel the weight of his grip as he slowly pulls out of him and pushes in again. 

Connor’s legs find their way around Spike, pulling him closer. His body is shaking with need. “Spike, _please_. You promised. You said you’d—”

Again that word, that reminder, like he’s afraid he won’t get what he needs. Spike growls and brings his second hand to Connor’s throat, tightening and shutting him up at the same time as he takes his first hard thrust. Connor’s pulse jumps, accelerating like the wings of a frightened bird. There’s no fear in Connor’s scent, though, no hesitation in his eyes, only relief even as he starts struggling for breath, tiny, choked moans passing his lips. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Spike hisses, only realizing he has voiced the words when Connor’s body jerks beneath him, arching to meet his next thrusts. He has been hard for too long – they both have – and it doesn’t help that he has Connor’s life at the tip of his fingers. It has been years since he last took a human life, and years since he wanted to badly enough that he had to make a conscious effort to stop himself, but _this_ is not about killing. It’s about knowing he could, knowing he has that power – knowing, also, he was _given_ that power. It’s about the trust of a boy that doesn’t shy away from saying “I love you” and “fuck me harder”, and who means both things equally. 

Unrelenting, Spike drives Connor toward the release he so desperately craves. Flowers are already blooming on Connor’s throat like a necklace, dark roses on a silk canvas; he bruises the same way he heals: too fast. His chest is heaving for the breath he can’t find, his eyelids have dropped closed. All Spike can hear is his boy’s heart thundering, so fast that any other human would pass out by now, but not him, and Spike knows just how close he is.

A little faster and a little tighter is all it takes. Connor’s open mouth lets out a soundless scream. Spunk splatters over both their chests. Spike drives his cock in deep one last time before letting go of his control on both Connor and himself. He comes to the sound of Connor gulping down air, their bodies shuddering together.

Spike leans down, resting on his forearms on either side of Connor. He kisses the hollow of his throat, where his thumb fits so damn well, and feels Connor’s spent cock twitch between them.

Connor wraps his arms around Spike and pulls him down, until they’re chest to chest, Spike’s weight fully on him. “You’re breathing,” he says, his voice raw and a little painful.

With some surprise, Spike realizes that he is; it had been a long time since his body forgot it didn’t need air.

“Only for you,” he whispers, and raises his head to lay his mouth on Connor’s.


End file.
